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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 170: Brown 345
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Cooper 54
As Mayor Devault moved toward the gunner to give the order to fire, silence filled the square.
“No!” someone shouted, and it was like a dike breaking. A thousand thousand No’s rejected the offer. Tomorrow would be Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the deprivations of Lent. The party of Mardi Gras would end at midnight as it had the year before, and the year before that all the way back to when it was first inaugurated.
“Only strength and terror can protect you. Trust in the power of mass will, and its tool, the government. Your leaders will save you,” the White Mister Scratch said. He pointed to the guns, and to Derek’s amazement, he could see Mayor DeVault walking up to start mass murder, but around him hovered an image of Assistant Mayor Pepidou, who had been on the ironwork bridge as they got rid of the first Carter head.
A loud voice spoke from the Cathedral of St. Louis front steps. It was Bishop Stevens in his full regalia with his crosier, and his fellow priests, and incense bearers.
“Some trust in chariots, and some trust in horses, but we will trust in the Lord our God. Put not your trust in the son of man, in whom there is no help. Trust not in princes. Mayor DeVault cannot save you. He has no strength of arm to save you, nor strength of leg.” A thudding sound behind them, and everyone turned their head to see Mayor DeVault fall over. He was not dead, but his face was frozen in a way that Derek recognized as a stroke.
“Useless,” White Mister Scratch muttered.
“Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” the Black Mister Scratch muttered. But to Derek’s joy, none of the devil’s Knights or Pawns took up the offer. Instead, he saw Emma Malcolm standing tall, supported by Reverend Ishmael and two Black police officers.
“You promised me security, power. All I had to do was kill my husband, and trust your oaths. So I did, and all I got was hatred.”
“You had power and security, woman. I did not lie,” said the Black Mister Scratch. Because of the winds all of this was heard by all.
“Until that man came from wherever he came from.” She jabbed a beefy arm at Michael Gabriel.
“He is not of this world, so my vows of protection from dangers of this world are not broken.” Both Mister Scratch’s chuckled.
“So you said you would stop him if I gave you my wayward son. And I did. I gave Marion to the Carter Brothers.”
“And has this man attacked you since then?” The Devil spread his hands as if he was the most reasonable man around. “Again, I am proved to be a man of my word.”
“But what you did not say was that all my other boys would hate me,” she said softly, and Michael Gabriel could see tears go down her cheeks. “You did not say that I would hate me.”
“Hardly my fault you did not foresee this.”
“I reject you. I may go to ride the lightning, but Reverend Ishmael here will be reading me the 23rd Psalm when I go.”
“Fine.” The Devil sniffed. “You’re useless now anyway. Just trash.”
The people made their views known by turning their back away from the mayor and toward the bishop.
“You have done two plays, and failed both, Lucifer Morningstar.” The angel, next to Derek, again spoke with grave solemnity. “You have but one more.”
In frantic agony, Mister Scratch--both of them--looked at Derek, and the City, and Derek returned to his body.
Then both of the incarnations of Mister Scratch shouted in unison, in voices so similar it was obvious they were the same person, “Fire the accursed guns!” A third Mister Scratch appeared and whispered loudly into one man’s ear so that he jumped in fear, and set off his gun. That led to the second one going off, because if another policeman thought it wise to fire, then they should fire, too. The shots spun around the sky as the gatling guns fired on their own now with no hand to guide them.
“I am the Prince of the Power of the Air,” only one Mister Scratch, his face red with fire, intoned. “I have brought the hurricane here, and held it at bay. I now release my bonds.”
Howling winds roared out of the sky, and rain began to pelt the City.
“You have chosen poorly! Turn back to me. Your brethren will not save you. The Man will not save you. I can. I am the Prince of the Power of the Air. Only let the City call on me, and I will save you now. Otherwise, the dikes which were built poorly because your human government stole the money for their pleasures, will break and you will drown.”
“You have gone beyond your allowed three plays by arguably two plays,” the angel spoke in judgment.
“What?”
“You have broken The Rules,” Derek shouted in great joy even as he saw storm topped waves coming in.
At that instant there was a pause in the rising winds, as a stampede rushed up one of the sidestreets and into the square, headed by a familiar bull and followed by animals of every description, from wild deer to barnyard chickens. They split up, the bull headed for the black Scratch. Derek was losing track of everything, but he was rather certain that that incarnation of the Devil was scooped up onto the horns and run out down one of the roads. The other was being assaulted by birds, trying to cover his head. He turned into crows, but eagles and falcons started pursuing them, and they scattered out over the marsh. Despite the fearsome winds gusting and blustering and gaining strength, the hunt continued on in full wrath.
One of the gatling guns hit him. People had hit the ground, but Michael Gabriel towered above everyone and was the obvious target. Taking several hits in rapid succession, Derek felt himself collapsing.
The thousands in the square threatened to flee, to stampede over each other. Wind gusts grabbed up lightweight objects, and soon worse would be coming. Already, the levee was showing signs of breaking. Only a few would get out. But then he saw a large Black man, the one from Zoe’s party, run by him, with his arms full of stones. They may have been stones gathered for a riot, but now he put them to the levee. A bone skinny White youth next to him dragged up another stone, and handed it to the first man.
Looking about, he saw men from Hannah’s diner, from Reverend Ishmael’s church, all joining to grab whatever stone they could. The police seeing the example joined in. And he saw hundreds of others who had something similar in their faces, even if their faces were half a dozen different colors.
“I am a Mustard Seed. God will protect me,” a man said running past him, against the wind, toward the still breaking levee. Then panicked men, and even women and children who had been about to charge madly away trampling each other in their fear, paused, turned back, and began to rip down buildings for the rebuilding of the levee.
He heard a thunderous boom behind him, and wondered what fresh catastrophe it signaled. Instead, he saw Bishop Stevens bend down next to him.
“I told them to knock down the cathedral. There are a lot of good, heavy stones in it. I know you’re not Catholic, but perhaps I can pray for you.”
“Sure,” Derek said softly, and as the old priest prayed, and skating rain slashed them both, and the dike of the City was being rebuilt by thousands upon thousands of eager hands, he died and left that world behind.
He looked around. He was somewhere else.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
